


Branches of Pine

by 27dragons



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Black Friday, Bucky and Clint are bros, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Hanukkah, Holidays, M/M, Mistletoe, Natasha Romanov has a heart, New Year's Eve, New Year's Kiss, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Team as Family, Thanksgiving, Thor Is Not Stupid, Winteriron Holiday Exchange, get-together, not AoS compliant, not compliant with anything after CA:TWS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 04:48:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5484002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/27dragons/pseuds/27dragons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Bucky's first holiday season with the Avengers, and he's determined to enjoy it, from the big Thanksgiving parade to the New Year's countdown. He's still dealing with his PTSD, but his new friends are there to help him with that. He's also dealing with a crush the size of those giant parade balloons, but his new friends are going to help him with that, too... whether he wants them to or not!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Branches of Pine

**Author's Note:**

> This is a gift fic for tumblr user [havvkeve](http://havvkeve.tumblr.com) for the 2015 Winteriron Holiday Exchange, who said they liked (among other things) team-as-family, the Bucky-Clint broship, recovering Bucky, and getting together fic.
> 
> Warnings for one PTSD-related breakdown (and a few more moments of twitchiness), and one extremely rude person getting all up in Tony and Thor's business.

Bucky set up the rifle stand and rummaged in his bag for his favorite scope. Beside him, Clint was already peering through his scope and adjusting the angle of view.

It wasn't a bad spot that Clint had chosen. It was windy, but they had a relatively open sightline straight down to the target area, unlikely to be obstructed except by the occasional pigeon. The partial wall around the rooftop provided some cover, but they were behind the news 'copters anyway; no one would be looking their way. It was a long range, but Bucky had locked on to smaller targets from farther. He adjusted the stand's height a fraction of an inch, and lifted his head to check the range again, flesh fingers carefully adjusting the scope's focus.

"Come on," Clint said, snapping his fingers, "hurry up. They'll be coming any minute now."

"Relax; these things always run a little late." Bucky peered through the scope again and checked the his head to check the range. "Christ, we have to be almost a mile off."

"More or less," Clint said. "Look, I spent all day yesterday checking out the sightlines. This is the best spot, if you don't want to go blend into the crowd."

"No crowds," Bucky agreed quickly. "Just glad I don't have to actually hit anything. These gusts would throw even me off, especially at this distance."

Clint grinned and dug into his duffel, coming up with a Thermos. "Gotta admit, this is cooler than watching the parade on TV."

"Told ya. We had this thing back in the day, too, you know?"

"You ever go?" Clint handed Bucky the lid of the Thermos and poured what looked like hot chocolate.

"Nah. No way Steve could'a handled standing out in the cold for half a day. Plus, some numbskull would'a heckled and he'd'a taken offense and then we'd have spent our Thanksgiving in the drunk tank or the hospital instead of having dinner with my folks." Bucky sipped carefully, then grinned. Not just any hot chocolate, but Coulson's special hot chocolate. He sipped again.

The sound of drums echoed down the alleys and the distant mass of crowds somehow got just a bit louder. "Sounds like it's starting," Bucky said. He peered through the scope, though it would be another ten minutes or so until the first marchers turned the corner into the scope's magnified view.

"Does it? Must be too subtle for my ears." Clint lifted a hand and flicked at his hearing aid before Bucky could stop him. The squeal of feedback was audible even to Bucky. " _Ow_ , shit, aw, ears."

Bucky snorted. "Dumbass." He took another sip of his chocolate. "Steve's gonna be first, right? And then Thor, and then Tony?" They were the three highest-profile Avengers (along with possibly the Hulk, but no one had tried to suggest the Hulk should be part of the parade, to Bruce's relief) and were each riding a different float. Steve was right up front with the Pilgrims and the turkey, and all the Avengers had been making "old" jokes about it ever since their assignments had come in from the PR department. Bucky had forgotten the name of the organization that Thor was supporting -- the World Peace Initiative or something like it -- but the Asgardian had been exuberantly enthusiastic about it. Tony was riding on the float sponsored by SI, and had spent the last week micromanaging the float committee to make sure they had enough candy to throw to the kids lining the parade route and modifying the armor he was planning to wear so it would shoot confetti from the hand-repulsors.

"Yep," Clint said. He cast a sly grin at Bucky. "Looking forward to seeing your new boyfriend on the Stark Energy float, are you?"

Bucky couldn't suppress the blush that bloomed up his neck and curled around the tips of his ears. "Shut up, Barton."

"Wait, you really _do_ have a thing for him?" Clint gasped in apparent delight. "It's like Christmas came early!"

Bucky hunched until the collar of his coat brushed his earlobes. " _No_ ," he stressed. "I just, it wasn't, I didn't--"

"Hey, relax," Clint said. "You've been cooped up with him practically every day for months; a little Stockholm Syndrome is--" Clint broke off with a grin at Bucky's glare and spread his hands disarmingly. "I'm just fuckin' with ya, you know that, right? I mean, it's not who I would choose, but I'll admit the man isn't hard to look at. It's okay if you've got a crush. I won't tell anyone."

Bucky scrubbed his hand over his face. "It's not like that," he insisted, even though he was sure Clint would know it for a lie, or at least a truth stretched so thin as to be transparent.

Clint wasn't exaggerating about the amount of time Tony had been putting in on Bucky's arm. The constant wash of Tony's chatter as he worked had been at first merely a background hum, and then an irritant, and then amusing, and finally... comforting. And then, a few nights ago, Bucky had... dreamed.

It wasn't a sex dream, or at least it _shouldn't_ have been a sex dream. In it, Tony had been working on Bucky's arm as usual, and then that had been done and Tony had opened Bucky's chest to work on that, and Bucky had realized that he was entirely machine, no flesh-and-blood left at all. It should have been terrifying -- the other times he'd had similar dreams, they'd all turned into nightmares -- but Tony's touch had felt startlingly _good_.

Even though he'd been a machine, Bucky had felt warm. Protected. Cared for. Tony's rambling tone had been fond, hands careful and gentle as they'd danced nimbly through Bucky's circuitry. Tony wasn't outfitting Bucky for some ulterior or nefarious purpose, simply repairing him, improving him, _upgrading_ him, and all for Bucky's own sake. It had been relaxing, pleasant, even enjoyable. Bucky had wanted it to keep going. Had wanted Tony to make him into something that Tony could be proud of, maybe even something Tony would claim and _use_ \--

Bucky had jolted awake, gasping for air and damp with sweat, not with fear but with desire, cock harder than he could remember it ever being before. Frantic, ears still echoing with Tony's soothing voice, skin tingling with the remembered sensation of Tony's careful hands, Bucky had grabbed at his aching erection, and it had taken no more than a dozen rough strokes before he was coming.

Bucky finished off his hot chocolate and turned up the collar of his coat to hide the blush, though there was no chance Clint had missed the way it had darkened and spread. "Parade's coming," he grunted, and bent to look through the scope.

Clint, in a moment of startling understanding and empathy -- or perhaps because he was actually a mental eight-year-old for whom parades trumped gossip and sex -- dropped the subject and ducked to look through his own scope, trying to push that dream out of his thoughts.

After the parade and the public appearances, the interviews and the photo ops, there would be a dinner, private, just the Avengers and their closest friends, in the most highly-secure, private floors of Avengers Tower.  Bucky hadn't celebrated a Thanksgiving since 1944, and that had been him and the Commandos and Steve, holed up in an abandoned barn in the French countryside. What they'd been grateful for that year was mostly that the barn's roof was intact, which allowed them to have a fire. And that they were all still alive, but saying that aloud would have jinxed it.

Bucky had a lot of things to be grateful for this year: his returned sense of self, Steve's forgiveness and support, and the Avengers' acceptance and tentative friendship. Wishing for more would just be greedy.

***

The knocking was more strident this time, the calling voice deep and male and angry. A thin whine escaped Bucky's throat as he pulled his knees more tightly in against his chest, pressing himself further back into the corner of the small cell. His heart was pounding so hard that he felt physically ill. He couldn't go out there. Not. Not now. Maybe, in a while, an hour or so, he'd have calmed enough to unlatch the door and face the mob.

The knocking stopped, finally, and Bucky dropped his head back onto his knees and went back to trying to remember how breathing worked.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed when a scraping noise made him lift his eyes to the ceiling. A tile lifted away to reveal Natasha, hair falling down around her face like a cloud of blood. "Глупый," she chided gently. "Why did you try to go shopping _today_ , of all days?"

She reached down, and Bucky obediently unfolded himself and stood to help her down into the fitting room, even though it was an easy jump. "I needed a new sweater," he answered. "What do you mean, of all days? What's going on out there?"

"The day after Thanksgiving is the most cut-throat, vicious shopping day of the year," Natasha explained. "I've seen Doombots that were better-behaved than the average Black Friday shopper."

She might have meant it as a joke, but Bucky had gotten caught in the middle of a press of shoving, snarling bodies, and at least Doombots had motivations that made sense. "How'd you know where to find me?" he asked.

Natasha's lips pressed thin and she eyed him cautiously. "Tony gets a system alert when you leave the Tower," she said after a moment's hesitation. "And hooks into a lot of security systems around New York. Look, I know it sounds bad. He's got no sense of privacy or appropriateness, but--"

"No," Bucky said. "No, I appreciate it. It's... it's good to know someone's keeping an eye out for me. It hasn't been that long since I was a danger to everyone. Keeping an eye on me only makes sense."

Natasha rolled her eyes. "I don't think that's why he does it." She leaned over and picked up the new sweaters off the floor where Bucky had forgotten them in his panic attack. She hung them on the wall, one by one, appraising them in silence. "This one," she finally said, holding it up. It was a Christmas sweater that had drawn Bucky's eye because its abstract red and black pattern reminded him a little of the star on his shoulder, and a little of Iron Man, all at once. And when he'd picked it up, he'd discovered it was soft and warm and cozy, even just draped over his arm.

But... "I can't go back out there," Bucky said, throat suddenly tight. "The crowds, I can't--"

Natasha leaned in to kiss Bucky's cheek. "I'll take care of the shopping," she said, pointed up at the gaping hole in the ceiling. "I trust you can make your way back to the Tower?"

"Of course." Bucky's mind was already skipping through probable exits and routes that would not be choked with people. "But I can just come back for the sweater in a few days."

"I've got it," Natasha assured him. "It would be the perfect thing for you to wear on Sunday, for the tree-lighting ceremony in Central Park." She smiled, sly and amused. "Tony will love it."

Well, if Clint knew about his feelings for Tony, obviously Natasha would know, too. Bucky didn't even try to suppress his blush. He just sighed and jumped for the gap in the ceiling, catching the support beam just behind the ceiling tiles and pulling himself up. He looked around the narrow space until he saw the path she'd used to come in. "Steve's right," he said as he returned the missing ceiling tile to its place. "You're a terrible meddler."

Her laughter was muffled by the tiles, but no less welcome for it.

***

The sound of gunfire echoed through the night, and he froze. He could not return fire. Because he...

He couldn't remember why he shouldn't return fire, but he felt that injunction in his bones, freezing him, like the frigid air that ached in his lungs. He could not return fire, but the sound surrounded him, eating into his brain. There was gunfire, and he couldn't recall his mission. Why couldn't he remember the mission?

"Soldier," a voice said. A familiar voice, though he couldn't put a face or a rank to it immediately. If the gunfire hadn't been consuming his brain... "Soldier, look at me."

He opened his eyes, and only then realized that he had closed them. He still had no name or rank for the man standing before him, but the sight of the man's frowning face made his heart trip with dread. The body knew, even if the mind didn't understand why, that he _did not_ want to disappoint this man. It must be one of his handlers, then, or a technician. Someone with authority. He forced trembling limbs to straighten until he stood at attention.

The man's lips pressed tightly in displeasure -- as well he might, with gunfire all around them and the soldier unable to remember the mission. The soldier's stomach churned with dread. The man said, "Come with me." He turned and strode away, and perforce the soldier followed, resigned to whatever discipline the man would command.

He hoped he would not be wiped.

The man opened a door in an outbuilding, sloppily concealed by greenery, and gestured for the soldier to precede him down the stairs. When door swung shut behind them, the sound of gunfire was diminished, and the soldier allowed himself a soft gasp of relief, a tremor echoing through his shoulders. The stairs ended in a dimly-lit hallway of unpainted concrete. The soldier stepped to the side so that the man could resume his place in front, but the man gestured at the floor. "Have a seat."

He sat, and the man sat across from him, heedless of the damage the dirty floor would do to his tailored suit. "I'm sorry," the man said. "If I'd known there were going to be fireworks, I'd have warned you."

Fireworks?

The shots, he realized. They hadn't been gunshots at all, but the explosions of fireworks.

They were only fireworks, and he had been ready to _return fire_. Oh, god. Oh, _god_ , the park was swarming with innocent civilians whose only crime had been a desire to celebrate and he--

"Hey, hey--" A hand wrapped around his wrist, tugging it gently away from where he'd been yanking at his hair. He looked up, and the man -- _Tony_ , he remembered all at once -- returned his gaze solemnly, without fear or anger. "You're safe," Tony said, slow and precise. "No one was hurt. Do you know who you are? Can you tell me your name?"

He swallowed several times, shards of memory breaking across his mind as he tried to hold onto them, making him bleed and gasp in pain until finally he managed to nod and croak out, "Bucky. My name is Bucky."

"Hey, good job," Tony said lightly. His thumb was rubbing at the inside of Bucky's wrist, and it was distracting and grounding and maddening, all at once, and Bucky hoped desperately that he would not stop. "How much do you remember? Do you know where we are?"

Bucky closed his eyes, focusing on that touch, the rasp of Tony's calluses on his skin, as the shards and slivers stopped spinning and he came back to himself. "Central Park," he said. "To see Steve light the big Christmas tree."

"Well, it's not the tree at Rockefeller Center, but it's all right," Tony allowed with a faint smile. "When the tree lit up, they started in on fireworks, and you got all stiff and twitchy, so I snuck us away and brought you down here. Ring any bells?"

Bucky frowned, trying to remember. "Maybe?"

"Yeah, that's fine," Tony said. "Not unexpected. I mean, explosions are practically a lullabye for me, but I've got my own triggers." He shrugged out of his coat and swung it around to cover Bucky's shoulders.

Bucky realized only then that he was shivering, head to toe, an insistent shuddering that he couldn't stop even when trying.

"Hey, you're breathing fast again, don't do that." Tony's hand wrapped around the back of Bucky's neck, a firm touch, and blessedly _warm_... "It's just the adrenaline bleeding out of your system," he murmured. "It's not a weakness. It's just biology. Nothing to do but let it run its course."

Tony said it so calmly and matter-of-factly that Bucky couldn't argue. He just nodded and let himself lean into Tony's warmth. Tony didn't pull away. "I'm not a fan of cold, either," Tony said after a moment. "Every time I almost die, it seems to be somewhere cold."

A quiet, helpless sound pushed out of Bucky's throat at that, the reminder that he'd almost missed ever meeting Tony, multiple times, even. Tony didn't respond to it, though, or say anything else until Bucky's shivering had finally died away and they were able to sneak back up the stairs and melt back into the crowd that was milling around in the aftermath of the fireworks show.

***

"Nothing in my life," Clint complained, twirling a headless arrow shaft in his fingers, "ever prepared me for an _actual_ War on Christmas."

"At least we got them stopped before Chanukah was over," Steve pointed out. "They were even easier to wrap up than Doombots."

"Did you just make a wrapping joke?" Tony demanded. "Damn it, I was saving that joke for the end of debrief!"

"Sorry, Stark," Steve said, smirking, "you snooze, you lose."

"Puns aside," Natasha said, "these guys _were_ pretty small-time for us. Why didn't SHIELD handle this on their own?"

Coulson directed a faint smile in her direction. "Publicity," he said succinctly. "Saving New York from a band of terrorists determined to put a halt to all winter holiday celebrations is good press, no matter how amateur those terrorists might be."

"To be fair," Tony said, "the Dreidel of Doom was pretty tough to beat. And the Kwanzaa kinara we found in their hideout wasn't finished, but from what I saw, it was going to be pretty explosive." He waited two beats, then pointed finger guns at Steve. "Boom! Back in the lead, baby."

"Which brings me to the last item on the agenda," Coulson said, continuing as if he hadn't heard Tony, which, in all fairness, was the only way to actually get anything done in these meetings. He started passing out slim folders. "Your holiday PR schedules."

A chorus of groans echoed around the table.

"I've tried to tailor them to your personal interests and causes, as much as possible," Coulson said, ignoring the complaints, "and yes, Tony, I've already coordinated with Ms. Potts and SI's PR team so you can't play us against each other again."

"You play hooky _one time_ \--"

"You don't really want me at all these, do you?" Bruce said plaintively, looking at the sheet in his folder. "I mean, I'm not the most popular--"

"You have one meet-and-greet at a scientific symposium -- Dr. Foster has agreed to be your escort for that -- one Doctors Without Borders event, one day's volunteer work at a shelter for battered women and children -- Clint, Natasha, and Steve will be joining you for that -- and the Maria Stark Foundation's holiday gala banquet, which everyone will attend," Coulson recited, ticking them off on his fingers. "Yours is the second-least-busy schedule at the table."

"Trade ya, Jolly Green." Tony was still flipping through what looked like a half-dozen pages of tightly-coordinated events, looking more resigned than truly dismayed. Bruce snorted.

Bucky slumped in his seat and tried to hide. There were only three events on his schedule: a veterans' dinner that he would be attending with Steve, Sam, and Jim Rhodes; a children's hospital party which would include Steve, Tony, Clint, and Thor; and the black-tie banquet. Compared to the others' obviously-packed schedules, it should be a breeze, but he couldn't help feeling overwhelmed. It seemed like a lot to do when combined with his usual schedule of training and therapy and study.

He took a breath, and then another, trying to get himself under control, only half-listening to Tony and Steve's good-natured squabbling and Natasha explaining some of the events for Thor.

A small paper airplane landed on Bucky's folder and he looked up sharply to see Clint winking at him. Carefully, Bucky unfolded the paper and read:

_Silver lining: you'll get to see Stark in a tux at least twice a week for the rest of the month._

A mental image presented itself immediately -- Tony was never _not_ attractive, but the one time Bucky had seen him all dolled up, he'd been _breathtaking_ \-- and that was literal; Bucky had actually stopped breathing for a minute or so.

The back of his neck heated, and he balled up the note and threw it back at Clint, who just grinned and let it hit him square between the eyes.

***

Bucky didn't like the tuxedo -- it wasn't about comfort so much as mobility; if anything happened, there was no way he could run, dodge, or fight properly in this getup.

Pepper had tugged his jacket into place and done up his tie with a pinched look on her face that had been growing steadily more pronounced as the month wore on, though, and so Bucky had forbore complaining to her about it. She obviously had enough on her plate. He wondered what the problem was, but she'd never been reticent about asking for help when she wanted it, and he didn't figure they were close enough that he could offer an ear. Maybe it was just the stress of keeping a company productive when a big chunk of its employees were taking time off.

Coulson, bless him, had stationed Bucky away from the boisterous center tables where the deepest pockets and brightest celebrities were seated, but with good sightlines to most of the team.

Natasha's bright, false smile felt like a blow low in Bucky's gut, but she was poised and confident, and no one who didn't know her would know she wasn't entirely thrilled to be there. Steve had gotten pretty good at these sort of meet-and-greet functions over the years, and was gamely trading banter with a society matron. Clint and Bruce, like Bucky, were sitting at tables on the outskirts of the event, but Bruce appeared to be having a genuinely interesting conversation with one of his tablemates, at least. Clint had that wooden expression that meant he was enduring polite small talk, and he was scanning the room restlessly every few seconds. Bucky caught his gaze during one sweep and they exchanged smiles of commiseration.

Jim Rhodes looked stiff and formal, but he was sitting with a three-star Army general and a Marine Corps colonel, and they looked the same, so maybe that was just something that high-ranking military officers did at events like this. Sam looked much more at ease, a couple of tables over, even if he kept tugging at the high collar of his shirt when he thought no one was watching.

Thor, having grown up in the spotlight of royal diplomacy, was entirely at ease, talking and listening by turns, flattering the other guests with his attention and entertaining them with his stories. His big hands waved expressively when he talked, and his booming laugh occasionally echoed through the room, unashamed and unselfconscious. Whenever the others heard it, the tension in their shoulders and stiffness in their expressions eased a little, comforted by the reminder of their teammate.

They were all fine, if not where they might prefer to be.

Bucky focused on ignoring the itch at the back of his neck that meant he had his back to a door, and tried to enjoy the hoity-toity food while watching his teammates. Well, mostly watching Tony.

It still took Bucky's breath away to see Tony dressed up like this, all sharp creases and impeccable lines. Tony's smile was as false as Natasha's, but it was harder to tell because he never stopped moving. Even seated, he was twisting and turning, engaging everyone within the reach of his voice, pulling them into his orbit. His eyes sparkled -- with humor, with challenge, with anger -- it didn't seem to matter to Bucky, who had long since become resigned to being caught in Tony's spell whenever they were in the same room.

It was... not an altogether unpleasant feeling.

As the evening wore on and nothing more horrible happened than a couple of guests helping themselves to a little too much champagne, Bucky felt the tension in the back of his neck begin to ease. Not entirely -- he was never completely relaxed among strangers -- but enough that he could enjoy it a little, that he could anticipate a successful conclusion to the night.

Steve, Tony, Thor, Sam, and Rhodey were all standing together, posing for photographs and answering the same questions they'd been asked all month about their holiday plans, when Bucky's attention was snared by one woman's laserlike focus and purposeful stance as she waited impatiently in the line, a glaring beacon to his danger-honed senses amidst the mellow relaxation of the other guests. Frowning, Bucky changed the course of his slow lap of the room.

From the other side of the room, he saw Natasha do the same, absently fixing her left earring as she headed for the rest of the team. Clint, Bucky noted, had disappeared from the crowd altogether, probably to some vantage point he'd have scoped out in the first minute they'd entered the room.

Just as Bucky pulled abreast of his team, the woman stepped up to Tony, her expression colder than cryofreeze. "You're a hypocrite, Mr. Stark," she said, loud enough to turn heads. "You've stated publicly -- many times! -- that you're an atheist, but you're still taking advantage of a religious holiday to line your pockets, even while you spit in the eyes of the faithful by associating with a creature who makes false claims to godhood!"

The surrounding Avengers' faces ranged from shocked to disgusted to furious. Tony's camera-ready smile never wavered. He tipped his head down, just slightly, as if looking at her over the rim of sunglasses he wasn't wearing, and then looked over at Thor on his left. "I think she's talking about you, there, big guy," he said.

"I am aware," Thor responded, "though it was never my purpose to be thus misunderstood." His tone sent a shiver down Bucky's spine; Thor was slow to anger but implacable once roused. "I have never claimed to be a god," he continued, frowning at the woman, "though my people were once painted with that brush."

"And how can _you_ celebrate Christmas?" the woman snapped, unreasonably bold in the face of an irritated Thor and determined to offend someone. "Even if you admit you're not a god, you certainly don't worship our God!"

Thor swelled for a moment with anger, and then deflated as Jane squeezed past Sam to curl her hand around his arm. "I do not," Thor agreed gravely as he looked at Jane, "for I myself am older than your religion, and can recite my lineage back to a time that predates the existence of humans entirely." His gaze flicked back up, pinning the woman. "And yet I find in this holiday, and many others at this time of year, much of worth to any who would care to open their eyes and their hearts.

"It is a time of compassion and of giving, of generosity, hope, and joy. At this time, we celebrate our senses of wonder and awe, and engage our appreciation of beauty both simple and ornate. I do not need to worship a god to believe in these things. I do not need to kneel to your faith in order to wish that all might share in these delights. And I do not," he continued, his expression darkening again, "need to agree with your doctrine in order to understand that you yourself have failed it, in your attack upon us here."

A security guard arrived then, wrapping a beefy hand around the woman's arm. "Come on, ma'am, let's go."

Red-faced and quivering with rage -- and, Bucky fervently hoped, not a little shame -- she let the guard pull her away. They'd only gone a dozen steps, though, when she turned back and speared Tony with a glare. "You're going to Hell, Stark!" she called.

Tony flashed her a predatory "try-me" grin. "Possibly," he conceded. "If so, I'll see you there, ma'am." He pointedly turned his back on her.

"I am sorry that the enjoyment of this celebration has been marred," Thor said, and it was anyone's guess whether he planned for his voice to carry to the woman's ears. "But ever have the small-minded sought solace by attempting to place the burden of their pettiness upon the shoulders of the great. It behooves us to continue on about our business, without allowing this incident to concern us overmuch." His gaze lit upon Bucky, half-hovering behind Steve. "Come, Bucky, I should like to hear another tale of our good Captain's youthful escapades!"

There were eyes on him, suddenly, and Bucky froze for a moment, but Steve groaned good-naturedly and bumped shoulders with him, and on the far side of the semicircle of Avengers, Jim grinned, white teeth flashing in his dark face, and he said, "Come on, we'll trade. You tell us a good story about Steve, and I'll lay out the dirt on Tony."

And then Tony was protesting, trying to forbid Jim from telling some specific story, and Natasha was teasing Clint, who had suddenly reappeared. Sam was pointing out that there were plenty of stories to be told about Steve without having to reach all the way back into the 30s and 40s, and Steve was arguing. They were all laughing, and Bucky was caught where Steve had thrown an arm over his shoulders, but it didn't feel like a trap, for once. It felt, instead, like home.

***

Christmas Day, at least, was only the team.

Not the _whole_ team -- some of them still had relatives to visit. Pepper and Sam had each gone to stay with their parents, though Pepper had seemed somewhat stressed about it. Jim was spending most of his leave at his sister's; he'd spent a week fretting about what sort of gift to get for his niece, and arguing that Tony was not allowed to upstage him with a _better_ gift. (Tony had winked and put Jim's name on everything he'd sent anyway. Bucky hoped the girl liked robot kits.)

Jane had waffled for days over whether to accept an invitation from an aunt she'd never talked about, until Darcy had pointed out that it was an opportunity to show off Thor to a side of the family that had apparently not thought much of Jane's decision to study astrophysics rather than look for a husband, so the three of them were gone as well, though for a much shorter trip.

But the rest of the team -- the ones without blood relatives, or the ones whose blood relatives would not make them welcome -- were in the Tower.

After a month of enforced merriment for PR purposes, none of them wanted to do anything too elaborate for their own celebration, so Christmas morning was the usual sleepy shuffle of rumpled pajamas and uncombed hair, and their primary concession to it being Christmas was Clint putting eggnog instead of milk into his coffee (though that might have just been Clint not bothering to open his eyes enough to distinguish between the two cartons).

After breakfast, they exchanged gifts (by some unspoken agreement, every single one of them had given Tony Iron Man merchandise, which Bucky thought was a little embarrassing, but Tony had laughed and laughed, so maybe it was okay). Afterward, they drifted apart again, going their quiet, separate ways.

Bucky wasn't sure who'd started the movie marathon. When he came in, Clint, Natasha, and Bruce were already there. Natasha looked up from where her head was pillowed on Clint's leg and folded up her legs to make room for him on the couch.

Clint wasn't wearing his hearing aids, and while they hadn't turned on captions for the movie, he was still reciting along with every third line. Bruce was only half-paying attention, doodling something on a tablet. For a while, Bucky thought Natasha had fallen asleep, but then Clint mis-quoted a line and she reached up to smack his arm in punishment.

Just as the next movie began, Tony wandered in, wiping grease off his hands with a rag. "What are we watching?" he asked, and then continued without waiting for an answer, "Ooh, a marathon, good call. Are there dinner plans?"

"Is today a Thursday?" Bruce challenged in response.

"So that's a no on dinner plans, then, got it," Tony said. He rubbed at his face and eyed the scene for a moment, then nodded decisively. "I'll take care of it, no worries."

Natasha lifted her head to squint at him in alarm. "Tony--"

"I'm not going to cook, what do you take me for?" Tony waggled his cell phone at her.

"Don't you dare interrupt someone's family plans," Clint said. "That's just fucked up, man."

"I promise I will only call business phone numbers and offer obscene amounts of money to places that are already open," Tony said. He walked away, already dialing.

Half an hour later he came back and flopped down into his customary spot.

Natasha cracked an eyelid at him. "Did you--"

"Shh, this is the good part," Tony said, waving her imperiously to silence.

"They're all good parts," Bruce pointed out. "That's why we're watching them."

"Shhh!" Tony said again, eyes locked on the screen.

Coulson came in a few minutes later wearing the most hideous Christmas sweater Bucky had ever seen. He appeared to be on his way through to somewhere else, but they paused the movie to mock his sweater, and when it resumed, Coulson had somehow been chivvied into a spot on the couch.

Not long after that, Pepper slammed into the room -- as much as one could slam, when the doors were automated -- and tossed her overnight bag into the corner. With extreme prejudice. "My _mother_ ," she snarled. She plucked the bottle of beer from Clint's hand and drained it in three long swallows.

Clint looked like he was going to protest, but took one look at Pepper's face -- even dealing with Tony at his most intractable had never made her so furious -- and just scooted over to make room for her.

Tony gave her a knowing and sympathetic look. "There's eggnog if you want it," he offered. "The good stuff."

"Hush, I'm watching the movie," she said, but the anger in her voice had bled away.

They were well into the next movie when Steve came in, trailed by three harried-looking strangers carrying thermal bags. "Tony? The... catering has arrived?" He sounded confused.

Tony grinned and jumped up, going to greet the oldest of the strangers with a warm smile and a handshake. Steve shrugged and left him to it, squeezing onto the couch next to Bucky. "We're having catered dinner?" he whispered.

"Tony," Bucky said by way of explanation. "Shh, this is a good part."

Steve grinned and leaned back to watch.

Within half an hour, the catering team had set up a buffet-style board across the side of the room and left with a shockingly large tip, even from Tony.

For the rest of the evening, they watched movies, getting up whenever they felt like it to grab a plate of food. It was lazy and barely festive at all -- the only hints of the holiday were Coulson's terrible sweater and the red table runner the caterers had brought with them -- but it was _perfect_.

Near midnight, when the latest movie was rolling credits and everyone had gotten up to stretch and go to the bathroom, Bucky wandered back over to the food. It was pretty well picked-over by that point, but there were some slivers of cheese and some bits of fruit. He was about to go back to the couch when Clint caught his eye and nodded dramatically toward the bar, where Tony was doctoring the last of the eggnog for Pepper.

Bucky looked at Tony, then looked back at Clint with a shrug.

Clint jerked his chin at the ceiling, where there was... a sprig of mistletoe.

Bucky blinked at it. Where had that come from?

Clint rolled his eyes again and did something expressive with his eyebrows.

It wasn't like Bucky didn't know what Clint was suggesting. It was just that-- Oh, fuck it, it was Christmas. The universe probably owed him a little something, right?

Bucky put down his plate and walked over to the bar. Tony glanced up with a tired but open smile. "Heya, Buckaroo. Fix you a snoot?"

"Mistletoe," Bucky said intelligently, and immediately cursed himself, because he'd meant to be smooth and charming and funny, not... whatever that had been.

Luckily, Tony's genius was enough to make up for Bucky's idiocy. He looked up. "Huh," he said. "So it is. I wonder how that got there." He looked back at Bucky. "Well, I'm caught, fair and square; lay it on me."

Bucky hesitated. "Are you sure? If it makes you uncomfortable--"

"Have you been googling me with Safe Search turned on?" Tony said. "C'mon, pucker up, Tastee Freez."

Tony's eyes were crinkled with amusement and half-lidded in anticipation, and so Bucky really had no choice but to lean in and brush their lips together. Tony's hand curled around his neck, keeping him from pulling away, and Bucky's eyes closed automatically.

It was a chaste, dry kiss, but Tony's skin was warm and his lips smooth, and he smelled like fried food and brandy and nutmeg, and that combination shouldn't have been at all appealing but it was doing terrible, drastic things to Bucky's libido.

Tony released him, then, and winked at him with a sly half-smile, and then took the glass of eggnog back over to the couch where Clint and Natasha were pretending they hadn't been watching the whole thing. Pepper wasn't pretending even a little bit, but she only gave Bucky a long moment's considering look. Tony handed over the glass to Pepper and resumed his seat without so much as a glance in Bucky's direction.

Bucky felt like he was numb, except for his lips, which were still buzzing with the feel of Tony's facial hair. What did it mean? Did it mean anything? Or was it just mistletoe and silliness and Tony's usual constant flirting?

He was more confused than ever.

***

The mayor's New Year's Eve party was in full swing, loud enough that even Thor's boisterous boom was hard to find. This wasn't a required event for Bucky, but he had the monkey suit; he might as well use it, right? Clint had given him a knowing grin when he'd said that in the limo on their way to Gracie Mansion, but Bucky had pretended not to notice.

At least in this crowd, he could watch Tony without being too obvious about it. He hadn't precisely been _avoiding_ Tony since Christmas, but... well, maybe he had been, a little.

But if Tony had wanted to find Bucky, then he knew where to look, right? It wasn't like Bucky had been _hiding_.

Tony was on the dance floor now, smiling and laughing as he danced with Natasha. Both of them looked amazing, their movements loose and easy, as if they'd been partners for years. Once upon a time, Bucky had been able to dance like that, but it wasn't so easy anymore. He tried to imagine curving an arm around Natasha's trim waist and spinning her out, only to catch her hand and pull her back in, placing her hand onhis neck just to feel its warmth, hear the laugh as it trailed down to his chest, Tony's eyes flashing--

_Dammit_. He turned away from the dance floor, rubbing at his forehead.

He had replayed that damn kiss in his head dozens of times over the last week -- maybe hundreds! -- trying to figure out where he'd gone wrong, how he had failed to signal that his interest was broader than the excuse the mistletoe offered. Whether he had misinterpreted the spark of challenge in Tony's eyes or the way Tony had pulled him close.

Maybe he simply wasn't interested.

"You look like you have a headache," Natasha said in his ear.

Bucky nearly jumped out of his skin in surprise. "Jesus, woman, don't do that!" he complained. The sheer noise of the party had all but destroyed his situational awareness. That ought to bother him more than it did, but for a change, it was almost comforting -- except when Natasha was sneaking up on him, at least. He almost turned to check the dance floor, to see if Tony was still out there with a new partner, but he managed to restrain himself.

She smirked at having caught him off-guard, but it softened immediately in sympathy. "Do you need to go back to the Tower?"

"What? Oh, no, no, I'm fine." Bucky dropped his hand to his side. "Just a little tired."

"Only another hour until the new year," Natasha said, "and then you can sneak out without anyone noticing."

Bucky nodded. "I'll make it. It's not so bad."

She angled her body and nodded toward the curtains that lined the far wall. "There are some doors back there that lead out into the gardens," she said. "Take ten, go get some fresh air."

It was undoubtedly frigid outside, but Bucky was suddenly aware of how terribly stifling it was in the ballroom, and a few breaths of clean, icy air seemed like something he couldn't live without. He nodded his thanks and worked his way through the press of people until he was fumbling through the heavy velvet curtains and stumbling out onto a wide patio. The pale stones stretched before him for ten yards or so, then spilled out into neatly-manicured lawn that overlooked the East River.

As soon as the curtains had fallen closed behind him, they had muffled the noise from the party. Bucky crossed the patio, putting the sound even further behind him, and stopped at the edge of the lawn, leaning his hands on the back of a sturdy, wrought-iron chair. It was cold out, but the cold felt good after the press of the party.

There was too much light filtering in from the city to see more than a handful of stars, but across the river, the city lights were their own kind of beauty. There were dozens of boats on the river as well, big ones, private yachts and charter cruises hosting parties, too far away to hear over the muffled bass beat and murmur from the mansion behind him. They were all decked in lights, too, sparkling gold and red and blue and silver. Bucky wasn't sure how long he stood there, watching, before he heard a brief swell from the party behind him, and then familiar footsteps coming across the patio.

"Needed a break?" Natasha must have sent him out here. Bucky wasn't sure whether to be annoyed or grateful for her meddling.

Bucky closed his eyes for the space of a breath as Tony came up beside him, then opened them again, still facing out across the river. "Yeah."

Bucky could feel the heat radiating off Tony's skin. "Don't stay out here too long," Tony warned. "There'll be fireworks over the river at midnight."

"I'll come in for the countdown," Bucky promised.

"Yeah? Know who you're going to kiss, to ring in the new year?" There was a strain underlying Tony's playful tone that Bucky didn't know how to interpret.

He shook his head. His right hand tightened on the back of the chair.

"No? I know who I've got my sights on," Tony said. Before it could even ache, there was a warm hand on Bucky's shoulder -- it felt searing hot; he must have been outside longer than he'd thought. He turned his head, and Tony was right there, closer than Bucky had expected.

Tony's eyes were on Bucky's, searching, and then they flickered down to Bucky's mouth. Tony leaned in and his nose brushed Bucky's, lightly nuzzling, not quite a kiss.

The heat of Tony's breath ghosted across Bucky's lips, teasing, and Bucky chased it, wanting to swallow the air from Tony's lungs, to claim the kiss that warmth promised. He tipped his head and lifted his chin, sealing their mouths together, and Tony melted into him.

Bucky gasped in relief, and the instant his lips parted, Tony's tongue was there, teasing at the sensitive inner edge of his lips until Bucky gasped yet again. The mistletoe kiss had been sweet and chaste and tentative; this was hot and wet, barely-bridled desire desperately seeking an outlet in the way they clutched at each other and the quiet sounds echoing in their throats.

Tony finally pulled away, panting for breath, and when Bucky opened his eyes, Tony was looking at him with an unreadable but achingly open expression.

"But it's not midnight yet," Bucky said inanely, brain whirling too fast to register.

Tony's lips twitched, and Bucky wanted to kiss them again, to find out what Tony's smile tasted like. "Fuck midnight," he said.

Bucky laughed. "Fuck midnight," he agreed, and gave in to the urge, claiming Tony's mouth, wordlessly demanding a kiss that Tony surrendered eagerly. When his lungs demanded air again, he backed away only enough to rest his forehead against Tony's, keeping his hands curled around the back of Tony's neck, fingers tangled in those short, dark curls.

"That worked out well," Tony said, breathless. "I admit, I wasn't sure, given the way you've been avoiding me for the last week."

"I wasn't-- Well, only a little," Bucky protested. "I just, I wasn't sure if you actually wanted..." He trailed off, waving his hand vaguely.

Tony pulled away, only a few inches, just enough to level an extremely dubious look at Bucky. "What's not to want?"

Bucky snorted. "A fuckload of trauma, for starters." He looked back out at the fairy-light-studded boats drifting on the river. "I may never be able to watch fireworks again." It was supposed to be a joke, but saying it out loud made it seem truer and sadder, an unaccountable loss. It should have been trivial against everything else Hydra had taken from him, but instead it stood out in stark relief, a stand-in for all the little moments they'd never be able to share.

Tony's hand left his waist and cupped his jaw, turning Bucky's head back to face Tony. "Fuck fireworks, too," Tony said seriously.

Bucky huffed out half a laugh. "Fuck fireworks, fuck midnight -- we're fucking off a lot of things tonight, apparently."

Tony grinned. "It's possible I've got fucking on my mind."

Bucky groaned and laughed at the same time. "You're ridiculous," he said.

"You like it that way," Tony countered.

Bucky brushed his thumb along the line of Tony's cheek. "I really, really do."

Tony kissed him again, slower this time, deep and hot and promising. Bucky moaned into it and pulled Tony closer, aching to feel the way their bodies would fit--

" _There_ you are," Clint's voice said. "Phil wants to... Oh. Uh, oops?"

Bucky dropped his head to Tony's shoulder and started laughing.

"Barton, I _swear to god_ if you don't get out of here in the next five seconds," Tony threatened, hand tightening on Bucky's hip as if to keep him from pulling away.

"Yep, I'm going, going now, no need to bust out the repulsors," Clint agreed hastily. "I'll just tell Phil that, um. I'll think of something."

And then Clint was gone, and Tony was laughing ruefully along with Bucky, and that was almost -- _almost_ \-- as wonderful as the kissing had been.

"Wanna skip the rest of the party?" Bucky asked when he'd caught his breath.

"Hell yes," Tony said. "Let's go make our own fireworks."

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I have never been to Gracie Mansion (the official residence of the mayor of NYC), nor did I spend much time researching it. My descriptions are probably completely wrong. Whoops. If it makes you feel better, you can pretend it's the riverside home of some other wealthy and influential New Yorker. :)
> 
> Extra-special thanks to the imaginetonyandbucky mod crew ([Potrix](potrix-the-queerschlaeger.tumblr.com), [Dezi](http://dezinformatsia.tumblr.com/), and [Auri](auripigmentum.tumblr.com)), who cheered me on and beta-read for me!


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